


Full Frontal Lobotomy

by AtomicBloom



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Anger Management, Dissociation, Drinking to Cope, Dysfunctional Relationships, Lobotomy, Memory Loss, Mystery Illness, Other, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Harm, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 10:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18386534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicBloom/pseuds/AtomicBloom
Summary: The war was over,they said.It's a new era of peace. We got everything we wanted.Yeah, okay. Speak for yourself.Sunstreaker went to therapy not because he cared about their concerns over hisunacceptableviolent behavior that was perfectly acceptable not that long ago when it was useful to them, or because he took their threats of imprisonment seriously either, but because Sideswipe asked him to.The same Sideswipe who barely tolerated his company anymore.Sunstreaker has got holes for memories, and they’re getting bigger. Spec Ops openly watched him, but Sunstreaker wouldn’t have told Sideswipe any of this even if they had been on speaking terms.Unsurprisingly, things do not improve from there.





	Full Frontal Lobotomy

3 and a half minutes. 3 and a half _fucking_ minutes. Sunstreaker could have refueled— detailed his tires— anything. But, here he was waiting on a spindly little civilian class. His hands were rigidly curled on the edge of the bench. It took conscious force to remove them before he did permanent damage to the flimsy material. He would like to permanently something alright. He thought about the angle he’d have to tilt his head to get his spit to land on the shiny nameplate on the wall from here. _Fontanel,_ it read in curving glyphs— like that guy had something to be proud of.

 

He imagined taking his M32-4, the trigger fitting against his finger perfect as anything, and blasting a hole through the numlock same as he did to many Decepticon bases in the day. No way a door like this would have secondary defenses. It’d slide right open. He pictured the way his hand would wrap around Fontanel’s neck— he’d only need the one— Fontanel’s eyes popping. The _click click click_ of his hands futilely scrabbling at Sunstreaker’s. His desk between them, but it wouldn’t occur to Fontanel to try kicking it into Sunstreaker to force some distance. _Civilians._

 

But he was a civilian technically now too. The thought was strange. Somehow out of place in his head. Sunstreaker frowned at the floor.

 

He’d never hold his M32-4 again. He’d never hold any gun again. _The war was over,_ they said. _It’s a new era of peace. We got everything we wanted._ Yeah, okay. Speak for yourself.

 

4 minutes in and Fontanel still hadn’t called for him. Sunstreaker tapped his foot furiously. He was going to tap through the anti rust coating on the floor. He hoped that skidmark would think better of leaving people waiting when it came out of his budget. Seriously. Why in the pit should he stay here? He got here on time. It was Fontanel causing the problem, not him. If he wanted to see Sunstreaker he would have opened the door at 5 like they agreed upon.

 

But, if he left now Sideswipe would slam the doors, he'd leave the energon he brought back to cool on the counter while he drank his alone, and his shitty music would be dialed up so loudly the neighbors would call the enforcers on them. Only for them to find that Sideswipe wasn't in the building. Climbed right out the window, so he wouldn't have to use the front door, or worse he would try to talk to Sunstreaker about it. They couldn’t afford to replace any more furniture. Not on Sunstreaker's shitty warehouse worker salary.

 

Sighing, he leaned back against the wall in a facsimile of calm. He kept his feet planted on the floor, but he couldn’t quite stop the rhythm he got going, and found his fingers tapping the divots in the bench. His seat used to have a back rest. Whoever had removed it hadn’t bothered making it less obvious. There was a bit of metal sticking up from either end roughly chopped off. Repurposed for the war effort. Perhaps, the parts were walking around outside this very office. Inside mechs from medics who had nothing else to use as solder, or on some lonely planet as killing shrapnel that left bodies behind after being compressed into a cheap bomb.

 

7 minutes past Fontanel’s office finally opened, only to let out the previous appointee, without Fontanel. Of course. The strange mech was Decepticon purple and yellow. No badge, but that didn’t mean anything. A number of people on both sides had removed their badges, “To prove their dedication to peace.” Optimus included. Ridiculous.

 

The mech was staggering like he’s taken 10,000 kilohertz of electricity to the spine. He avoided all of the open walking space, and swayed unerringly toward Sunstreaker. The closer he got the more Sunstreaker tensed up. He leaned in, and Sunstreaker could smell his breath. Something perfumey, artificial, and antiseptic. _Don't do it. Don't fucking do it._ The mech fumbled for a bench back that wasn’t there, and stumbled over Sunstreaker’s feet. He hit the floor, staring up at the ceiling lights with the stupidest expression on his face. Halfway atop Sunstreaker.

 

Sunstreaker grabbed him by his neck and snarled in his face, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Stay outta my space you obsolete recyclable.”

 

He shook him violently. The mech’s teeth rattled together, because the moron didn’t close his slack mouth. A bit of drool landed on Sunstreaker’s hand. He shook him again, because it beat punching him in the face. The floppy necked motherfucker flapped like a flag in a hurricane. The mech’s head lolled, utterly dazed. His voice modulator spat static instead of words. Eyes unfocused.

 

Sunstreaker dropped the idiot, before he caved his head in. The mech fell, hitting the bench on his way down, rattling it. “Fucking drug addicts,” he hissed.

 

Sunstreaker wished Sideswipe was here. If he had seen how much progress he had made he wouldn’t insist that he keep going to therapy. Look at the way this drug addict’s head was still attached. But, if Sideswipe was here he'd pick the mech up. Congratulate him on keeping his appointment, and walk him home smiling all the while. Arm hooked around the mech's waist leaving Sunstreaker to wait.

 

Alone.

 

He kicked the insensate mech in the side. Groaning, he curled up, making a half assed attempt to protect his vitals.

 

This was the kind of mech Sideswipe thought he was on the same level as. This.

 

Sunstreaker stepped over him, not on him. See? He could be courteous and sociable. And stomped over to the office door. Banging on it until his therapist opened up.

 

Fontanel beamed like it was his idea of a good time to have four tons of angry mech bearing down on him, “Oh, Sunstreaker I was going to be with you in a moment. Oil Slick was being difficult. It pushed my whole schedule back.”

 

Sunstreaker gestured roughly behind him. “That difficulty is still here. You should call someone to dump him outside.”

 

Fontanel craned his neck to see around Sunstreaker's bulk. He frowned. “What is he doing on the ground like that? Sunstreaker did you—?”

 

“Did I what?”

 

He hesitated, “Nothing. I’ll comm my assistant to bring him home. His residence is on file. Come on in.”

 

Wisely, he didn't try to touch Sunstreaker, less wisely crooked his finger at him like he was a dog.

  

Fontanel’s office was a hastily slapped together room. Cheery pictures of pastel landscapes that no longer existed sat off center on the walls. Boxes were piled in the corners with labels like screws sized A-45, with empty live munitions crates serving as a makeshift cabinet. Fontanel’s desk, a used workbench, in contrast to the rest of the room was a minimal affair. Only having a single file on it. Likely his own.

 

The chairs were all different shapes and sizes. One of them came from a shuttle, white and squat, trailing wires that would have connected it to the electrical system. With no power it can’t recline. It’s forever stuck in a back breaking 63 degrees. Another looked like an antique, rusting tetrahex tripod chair. A lonely red cog shaped stool sat in the back that might’ve been from some closed down diner. And the last belonged to a Decepticon prison.

 

It had thick heavy restraints on it, and stains on the seat. Those models of chairs, he knew, pinched the corner of his wrist guard and had a hydrophobic coating, so the vomit and the energon slid right off.

 

Sunstreaker’s plating crawled like his nanites were cannibalizing it. From the inside they eat up and out _until you crack open, and spill—_ Which they weren’t really doing. Obviously. Sunstreaker never let his tanks get empty and if he did he wouldn’t leave them like that for months. He wasn’t crazy no matter how Sideswipe wished he was, so then he could have an easy solution to his problem.

 

“Please sit where you feel most comfortable,” Fontanel said.

 

“If I did that I’d be taking a seat at Maccadam’s oil house.”

 

Fontanel laughed like he said a joke.

 

Sunstreaker didn’t move.

 

“Okay, okay,” Fontanel said moving like he wanted to pat Sunstreaker's arm. He ended up fondling the air to avoid touching him. “I get it. My office isn't the most welcoming of places right now. When things have calmed down a little I'll see to it that the requisition office gives me a more homey, cohesive decor.”

 

He sat at his desk and folded his hands, “Sideswipe tells me you aren't adjusting well.”

 

Sunstreaker burned. Sideswipe? Sideswipe told him that? Has he been coming to this cramped building to tell him how unbearably terrible Sunstreaker was? He wouldn't. _He would._

 

“Sideswipe,” he enunciated carefully so he wasn't snarling, “Can keep his stupid trap shut. I am as I have ever been: fan fucking tastic. Haven't killed anybody in months. Not since the war ended. I've adjusted,” He spat the word. “You can check my records if you don't believe me.”

 

“I don't think that'll be necessary,” Fontanel said, “But I think you could adjust a bit more. Tell me, why do you swear using an Alien language from a planet called… Earth?”

 

“Because it's not against the Autobot code of conduct. That means I can call Ultra Magnus to his face a half-clocked shit sucking thundercunt and there's nothing he can do about it.”

 

“Autobots don't exist anymore. We are all Cybertronian. Nobody is going to write you up for swearing Sunstreaker. It's not against the law.”

 

“Yeah you would say that—just look at you,” Sunstreaker said. “Skinny, thin plates I could pierce with my bare hands. The only person crazy enough to walk around a warzone with civilian class armor is _Rung,_ and I don’t recall hearing about him having a copycat. A neutral, then, hiding behind a distant star system, making nice with the locals, so you could continue your privileged life while the rest of us bleed it out in far flung galaxies. Do you really think that if you keep saying we’re all Cybertronians now it will become true?”

  
Fontanel tapped his file, “We aren't here to discuss politics we're here to talk about you.”

 

“Yeah, well I don't feel like it. Answer my question.”

 

“Oh, but I think you do want to talk. You look like you have a lot of strong opinions to share, Mr. Obdurate.”

 

It was like being struck by a bell. _Look at him— you want to talk, don't you? I bet you have a lot to share Autobot—_ His skull reverberated, and the ringing in his ears drowned out all else.

 

A numbness was spreading along his limbs like flowering ivy. Unable to move, his vision narrowed to Fontanel's white and purple banded hands. His nerves went dark, his brain _foamed_ — he could smell his own wires burning. Fontanel’s mouth moved, but the audio cracked and fizzed. He couldn’t. _He couldn’t,_ _please—_ The world trembled on its axis, his senses seized, and he was, and he was, _and he was—_

 

—

  
  
  
  


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—

  
  
  
  


—

  
  
  
  


—

  
  


Revelation.

 

He had a hand. It was a good hand. Laying palm up. He could make the fingers curl on command. A second revelation. He had another hand. He could wiggle it. This must be the bad hand. There was always a bad one. Someone else was in the room with him. He didn’t know where they were only that they were there.  He shifted to see them, and it turned out he had a whole body too. What a revelatory day. He looked at the someone who was pacing and talking. _Fontanel,_ his brain supplied. And as for himself he was—Sunstreaker, _and he was sitting in the fucking Decepticon torture chair._ Arms neatly arranged for the restraints.

 

Recoiling, he yanked his arms in to his chassis until he realized that it looked like he was hugging himself, and hurriedly moved them to his knees. “Sunstreaker!” His battle protocols snapped online before the last syllable finished. Invisible lines traced the highest source of heat and radiation, the spark chamber penned in UV, his systems warmed as he prepared to launch— and it was Fontanel. Hovering over him, relieved. Of course it was only Fontanel who else could it be? He overided his protocols, hoping that Fontanel didn’t notice. Fuck. Fucking fuck. If he had gone through with it— there wouldn’t have been anything Fontanel could have done to stop him, small, helpless thing that he was. Sunstreaker would have killed him with his bare hands, and it would have been _easy_. He heaved and he felt a dull prickling sensation all over.

 

“Why am I in the chair?”

 

“Oh my. Don’t move. Do you know where you are?”

 

“Yes. Why in the pit would you put me in the chair? What made you think you had the right?”

  
  
Fontanel frowned, “You sat in that chair yourself. I’m afraid you are out of my weight limit. I couldn’t. Do you really not remember?”

 

He did it to himself. Primus. He needed to get out of this chair, this room, this _everything_. He got up on shaky legs. The room spun a little, but it’s manageable.

 

“I don’t think you should be moving just yet,” Fontanel grabbed him by his forearm. His tiny hand a sharp point of heat. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

 

Sunstreaker shook him off. “I’m fine. It’s an Earth thing. Forget about it.”

  
  
_"Right,"_ he said not hiding his doubt. "My assistant, Ictal, will be back. He can take you home, or I can comm Sideswipe—”

 

“No,” Sunstreaker shouted. “My appointment is over, so I am leaving. That is all Fontanel.”

  
  
Fontanel wavered where he stood, but to his credit he didn’t move. “I’m sorry I cannot in good conscience let you leave like this. You’re not well Sunstreaker. Please, let me help you.”

 

“I’ve never been the pleasing type,” he said, but Sunstreaker had the dreadful notion that if he tried to leave like this Fontanel would actually follow him. Nosy freak. “I’ll wait for Ictal, but I’ll do it outside. I need some air. And don’t tell Sideswipe about this. It’s none of his business.”

 

Fontanel clearly wanted to say something in response to the last bit, but he pressed his lips together and said, “Alright, but don’t go wandering off. This is serious; it might happen again. I’ll tell Ictal you’ll be on the stairs for him. Okay?”

 

Sunstreaker grunted, and left.

 

He nearly fell off the steps when the full, unfiltered atmosphere hit him like a brick to the face. Primus. He staggered. The sounds were alternately too quiet and too loud with no in between. It smelled like the whole planet had been shoved up his nostrils. He gagged, but trudged on anyway. Heading back to their apartment on unsteady feet. He didn’t want to find out if the dizziness carried over into his alt mode. Ictal was going to have to find some other dumb fucker to cart home. He wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t like that drug addict. He could take care of himself.

 

Fuck. He stopped. None of the buildings were familiar. His internal GPS system pinged that he was where he was supposed to be, but that couldn’t be right. He didn’t recognize any of these stores. They were strange, hazy, and utterly alien. He bet that he could poke a hole in one of them, or that if he looked long enough he could see through it like glass. They were that unreal. He didn’t know how long he stood there looking at the 50% off stickers plastered across the windows, but he became aware of wet pavement beneath him. Coolant, he identified, from a nearby spill. The ground rumbled from the passing people by on the road. Mesmerizing. The colors and alt modes blurred together into a single streak of pigment, and the sky swallowed everything.

 

Eventually, the scenery changed and he realized somewhere that he was moving. His feet led him to a place. _Maccadam’s oil house,_ the neon blue blinking light sign said. He entered. He goes up to the bar, because that is what he does in this kind of place. He gave the man behind the counter credits. He remembered doing that before. The bartender must remember him too, because he gave him a drink without saying anything. Sunstreaker found a quiet corner to stand in, _no chairs,_ sipping his drink. Bubbly warmth filled him and he laughed.

 

He loved this place.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed. No pairing for now, but I am a by the seat of your pants writer, so as I go something may speak to me. I'll edit the tags when I get there. I am doing my own thing regarding the universe, so don't expect a lot of IDW canon to apply. Also please note that there is some accuracy regarding PTSD, and dissociation, but I have also added some embellishments, so don't use this as a guide, please.


End file.
